


invenire.

by orphxus (impxria)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impxria/pseuds/orphxus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">You should have known better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">This place was never safe. It was never sanctuary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">It was never a place to call home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">Especially without him.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	invenire.

The recollection of previous days are blurred; the familiar screams and shouts echo in your ears. You remember fear taking hold when gloved hands grabbed you and the desperation laced in allies’ actions when they tried to fight back.

You remember hearing them call your name before everything went dark.

Everything else is a haze.

Consciousness slips through bruised fingers; the struggle to stay awake is too strong and rarely is it that you overcome it. The metal bars that enclose you are suffocating and cold under bare skin; clothes have been stripped away and undergarments remain. 

You’ve never felt so weak. So powerless.

They trapped you. They _lied_ to you, pulling wool over tired eyes and blanketing kids who yearned for a real home with a false sense of security-- of safety. And now they locked you in these cages, taking people one by one--

and you know that they never come back.

Anger sears through veins and knuckles go white when fingers grasp onto the thin bars so tightly; the simple action drains stamina quicker than ever before and dread settles in your stomach. You’ve been in here too long and strength is withering away. 

There’s nothing that can be done to free you. All attempts fail and energy goes to waste.

You can’t leave. Defeat comes in waves and washes over you slowly, then all at once. You resign and do everything you can to ignore the moans of pain that surround you and the hands that reach out for anything that could save them.

Death lingers in the darkness.

And soon, you will fall prey to it.

Fatigue grows and your eyes flutter; the grip on the bars loosen and your body goes slack.

The last thing that leaves your lips is his name.

 **.     .     .**

He carries death in his hands and anger in his heart.

Anxiety clutches onto every fiber of his being and his breathing is erratic; his thoughts are in disarray and composure is barely held together.

But his shoulders do not hang low. They do not fall to the weight placed on them.

Bellamy doesn’t know how many people he’s killed. He lost track long ago and he doesn’t plan to start counting now. The trigger is pulled without hesitation and he knows he’s doing the right thing. Killing a guard and stealing his identity-- the deed is done so ruthlessly, but he knows there’s no other way. There will never be another way to prevent lives from being taken. 

Because he needs to save them. He needs to save the ones who have been to hell and back with him.

Steps are swift and silent; decisions are made in a split second and not once does he ever pause because he knows he can’t. There’s hardly any time to stop and think. Possibilities and the safety of his companions are the only thing that occupy his mind until footsteps echo in the hallway.

One, two, three--

He can’t count them all. He holds his breath and prepares for the worst, fingers taking a firm hold on the pistol. They’re coming closer and closer-- his lungs begin to ache but he does not waver. They turn the corner and instinct takes turn when the gun is aimed point blank.

But the sight is welcoming and a long sigh of relief comes out. Arms fall back at his sides when recognition comes that it’s his friends; the worry on their expressions fade at once, but the display of happiness is brief. 

He doesn’t see you.

“Where are they?”

Hesitant glances exchanged between allies. A grim look shot his way. 

“They’ve been taken.”

His jaw clenches and resolve hardens; grief threatens to swallow him, but he does not allow it. He nods and the image of you is burned in his mind.

“Then we’ll find them.”

 **.     .     .**

And he does.

The sight that greets him is one that should be forgotten-- one that should have never existed in the first place. He does not flee, nor does he falter. It’s eerily quiet in the beginning until he and his friends approach the cages; familiar faces come to view and cries for help fill the musty air.

If the others are here, then so are you. Allies begin to break the locks with anything they can; life fills the room and urgency grows. His eyes search frantically for you, and then--

A faint whisper of his name.

He freezes. A slight turn of the heel, then a face to face encounter.

Horror surfaces in brown hues when he studies your body-- fresh bruises decorate your skin and the life in your eyes is barely there. It takes a second before it all clicks and you comprehend that he’s really here-- that you’re being saved. And the vacant countenance once held is replaced by a brighter one, though apprehension lies beneath it.

Your lips tremble and a hand presses against the bars.

“Bellamy--” your voice cracks and he steps closer, a bewildered expression meeting a frightened one, “you’re here.”

A shaky exhale. A nod.

“I’m here.”

The noise nearly drowns out the response. The prisoners are desperate-- they’re too riled up with the thought of freedom and it’s getting too loud. It’ll attract the guards soon--

“You need to get the others.” A voice breaks through the craze and your gazes meet an ally’s. “Security will be here any minute now and if we get caught here, we won’t have time to save everyone else. They’ll be waiting on the next floor, but you need to go and you need to go _now_. We’ve got this covered.”

He doesn’t want to leave you.

But he has faith in them.

He nods, yet reluctance doesn’t flee and he matches your stare again. This shouldn’t be goodbye-- but he sees the look on your face and knows exactly what you’ll say; his countenance holds trepidation and longing, but he doesn’t stop you from speaking.

Even if he doesn’t want to hear it.

“May we meet again.”

Your hand reaches out for his and he takes it. He almost chokes on his words and does everything to put on a strong face.

“May we meet again.”


End file.
